When Carmy finds him he's lost his shirt somewhere, a little shivery at the night air on his damp skin, his colourful uniform shorts still damp and drying — no longer messy with cum, at least. His hair is wilder than usual, the lakewater tightening and tangling his curls. He badly wants to come up behind Richie and faceplant in his shoulderblades, but they're not quite there yet, so he doesn't.

At least Carmy also looks chilled out, still. He's got a cup of hot water from the zip tap that he dunked some cocktail ingredients into, mint and lemon and shit, it smells good. Stands shoulder to shoulder with Richie and sips it as they watch the fireworks. Richie's mouth still looks like he's been sucking dick, and Carmy keeps looking at it as he smokes, sidelong, corner of his eye.

"Thank fuck we don't have to clean this shit up," he says, with a head jerk in the direction of the end of the party.